Star 69
by Nagia
Summary: [Little Empress, don't fear. I'm watching over you.] Wherever she goes, she can feel him, WATCHING her. It started with hangup calls. Breather calls. Condolences. But it didn't last long. Sequel to AWTDC.
1. Prologue

**69**

How did you get this number?  
I can't get my head 'round you  
Of course you're not coming over  
Snap out of it  
You're not making any sense

— _Psychobabble_, Frou Frou

**Prologue**

The first time I met Arnaud Desai, I didn't even know his name. All I knew was that I was, essentially, having a near death experience.

By near death experience, I mean I was exhausted and cranky and guilty. Grime and dirt covered my clothes. A wound in my shoulder bled profusely.

My hands slipped on the Four Point's grip, but I was wearing sweat-slick rubber gloves. I was lucky I didn't drop it.

I felt eyes on me. That was my warning: I could feel somebody staring at me.

What I should have done was throw my shuriken at the goddamn sucker.

What I did was throw my shuriken at a completely different sucker.

One of them managed to shoot Tifa in the leg. She went down, but she went down hard.

Punching and screaming and fighting, that long gorgeous hair flying all over the place. At her first scream, Cloud and Aeris turned towards her, their eyes wild. I watched Cloud fight his way towards her, even as Aeris began rifling for her most powerful Restore materia. Hell, even Barrett and Red were freaking out— Barrett was shooting randomly at Shinra soldiers, and Red was practically tearing another one's lungs out with his teeth.

She was the perfect distraction.

I never knew Tifa held us together so much.

I managed to hit up _everybody_ for Materia. I even stole Materia from the Shinra soldiers.

Didn't manage to grab that Restore— Aeris couldn't seem to let go of it. She had gone sort of manic, casting Cure on everybody.

But it didn't matter. I had what I needed, and now it was time to run.

As I sped off our little battlefield, heading north, I could still feel those eyes, watching me.

A year later, that feeling would be all too familiar.

TBCMarch 14, 2006


	2. Chapter One

**69**

**Chapter One: Eyes On Me**

How did you get this number?  
I can't get my head 'round you  
Of course you're not coming over  
Snap out of it  
You're not making any sense

— _Psychobabble_, Frou Frou

* * *

_Day 08_

Even by the eighth day after her father died, Yuffie couldn't quite seem to grasp it. It just wasn't _registering_. She had drifted through the halls of the Palace for no real reason. Every time she turned a corner, she expected to bump into the old man. She walked into his office only once, stayed five minutes, and walked back out.

In short, it didn't feel like he was really dead.

Everywhere she went in that place, she felt his presence. She smelled him. She could feel him watching her.

She wasn't sure if she welcomed it, or if she was insane.

* * *

_Day 12_

_20:00_

That feeling of being watched never _left_. It was almost familiar. That burning sensation along the back of her neck...

If she was feeling her father watch her, she wouldn't feel it _there_, would she? The back of your neck was a private thing. It was like your legs: good, healthy Wutaian fathers did not stare at their daughters there.

She ignored those doubts (maybe when she felt she was being watched, it just always showed up in her neck?), slipped into the _onsen_. The heat of the water felt so good.

No, _being clean_ felt so good. There had been times, since their deaths, where she had felt she would never get Tsen Li's blood off, or the soot out of her hair.

Out of newly formed habit, she held her hands up to the light. Her skin looked red from the heat.

She let out a disgusted cry when she saw the faint outlines of brown under her fingernails.

_It was still there._

Tsen Li's blood was still on her hands, it was still _under her fingernails_, it was like _his death was a part of her_.

She put her hands to her face and sobbed. She was never going to be okay, was she? She felt her father everywhere. She could pick out his scent in any room he'd ever been in. She could feel his _eyes_ on her.

Was this what grief was like? This raw, burning ache in her chest? A physical agony, in her stomach, when she realized that _her father wasn't there and never would be again_? A longing for him that just wouldn't go away, like an itch that you scratched until you were raw, but just wouldn't stop itching?

Was this what the rest of her life would be like? Would it ease?

She understood how Vincent must have felt over the loss of Lucrecia, now. That burning, gaping hole in her... She could understand how he'd crawled into that coffin.

She just wanted to sit in a dark room, away from the scent of her father. She wanted to sit there and listen to her heartbeat and calm down, push everything away. At the same time, she wanted to go to his room and pull out his old _yukata_ and sit down _seiza_-style and breathe in his scent until she could carry it inside her stomach or her mouth.

Breathe in his scent until she could hear his heartbeat and his voice and he wasn't dead anymore.

Breathe in his scent until she could carry him around in her mouth, like a pebble on her tongue, until she could carry him in her fingertips like a knotted cord around her wrists.

She did neither. She sat in the _onsen_ until the warmth had suffused her bones.

When she left, she could still feel his eyes on her.

_01:00_

Yuffie woke to the sound of an insanely cheerful ring-tone. Her eyes were crusted with sleep, and she blinked blearily before realizing what it was she'd heard. Her body was stiff from being so soundly asleep, stiff and heavy feeling, and took her time getting to the phone.

Her hand closed around it. She ripped it off its little charger-stand-thing, flipping it open almost automatically.

"_Moshi-moshi?_" She asked. Even in her own ears, her voice sounded incredibly tired.

There was silence on the other end.

"_Moshi-moshi?_" She tried again.

Silence.

Three beats of silence. Not even a breathing sound.

And then she heard a click.

She stared at the cell phone in her hands. "What the hell?"

Confused, she headed to the received calls screen and looked at the number that had just called her. 071923415286.

In her tired state, she didn't bother to count the numbers.

Had she bothered, she would have realized the number was impossible.

* * *

_Day 13_

_06:00_

"Lady Kisaragi?"

The voice at her ear woke her.

She looked up to see a vaguely familiar little girl sitting _seiza_ beside her futon.

"Reikoku?" Yuffie asked, sitting up straight.

Reikoku nodded. "You told me to come in before sunrise. Is something wrong?"

"No, I'm just tired."

The girl regarded her with a sober expression. "You said you'd—"

"I know. Adopt you into House Chang today. And I will. Don't worry."

"But you've already slept an hour past what Sho Tzu says is your usual wake-up time!"

"It's called being tired, Tanaka. Look it up in the dictionary. It's probably under 'tired'. It's an adjective."

Reikoku pursed her lips. "That's not fair."

"Oh, shut up. I'm getting up."

She stood, on tired, shaky feet and headed towards the closet.

"Uh, Lady Kisaragi?"

"What?" She snapped.

"You laid out your kimono already."

"Huh?" Yuffie turned and saw that she had.

It was a lovely thing. Tsen Li had brought it with him, a betrothal gift he'd wound up never giving her. It was dark green, with the traditional depiction of Sixth Face— the All-Mother— woven down one side in lighter green and gold thread. The obi he'd brought with it was a beautiful gold.

Yuffie sighed. "I wasn't going for the kimono," she lied. "I was grabbing my slips."

Reikoku lifted an eyebrow and pointed.

The slips were neatly folded and lying on a small table.

Yuffie frowned. She didn't remember doing that, but she must have.

She shook her head. "I must be getting forgetful in my old age."

Reikoku cocked her head to one side. "I laid them out for you already."

"Oh. Well, that explains it."

Yuffie changed into her slips and pulled on the kimono. She felt odd, knowing that Reikoku was watching her every movement. It was bad enough, with the feeling of her father's eyes sweeping along her body as she changed clothes, but Reikoku... That was just weird.

After all, her father was a figment of her imagination.

_10:00_

Yuffie stared at the neat-looking signature on the slip of paper. Was she really able to write so neatly, so beautifully? Or was she confusing her calligraphy with her Eastern print?

But no, the signature read _Chang-Kisaragi Yu Fi_. Next to it, she saw Sho Tzu's handwriting: _Chang Sho Tzu_.

And there was Reikoku's new signature: _Chang Reikoku_.

Yuffie smiled. It seemed that Chang was going to be the House of Division six.

Well. She didn't have any problems with that.

As they left the chamber, she caught sight of someone in blue and grey.

She couldn't stop herself. Her eyes watered. Before she knew it, she was crying. Sure, she was on national television. But it had only been two weeks, and it still hurt so badly. It could hurt for years, she knew.

It was then that her phone rang.

She answered it.

There was nothing. Six beats of absolute silence.

And then she heard a click.

Snarling, she checked the incoming calls list. 071923415286.

_Wait a minute. That's an impossible number!_

She kept moving, her feet lifting from the ground and her legs swinging automatically. Her movements were ordered, neat, but her head was a swirl of thoughts and emotions.

She checked the incoming calls list again, this time for the phone call she vaguely remembered receiving the night previous. Funny, but she couldn't recall actually _talking_ to anybody.

The number was the same.

Weird, she thought.

* * *

_Day 15_

_Go no Dojo_

"Flow like ocean, strike like mountain!" Yuffie shouted. Her voice seemed scratchy.

She hadn't been sleeping well, lately. She kept getting weird hang-up calls in the middle of the night.

There was never any sound from the other end. It was rapidly becoming irritating. And she was no longer convinced that this was a coincidence.

The students grumbled. Nothing changed. The summer heat was still oppressive. The students still moved predictably.

Yuffie sighed and hauled a wooden boomerang off the wall. It had been her old training weapon. Boomer.

With an easy motion of her shoulder, making sure to snap out with her wrist, she sent the boomerang flying into their midst.

The floor became a flurry of movement. It was a riot of various-coloured uniforms as every single student on the floor tried not to be the person whose body would create the rebound necessary to send the boomerang back to their _sensei_.

"That!" Yuffie shouted. "That! Move like that! Don't just stand around! You're on a battlefield!"

The students grumbled a little more. Only the newest, however, even paused to blink when the boomerang soared back to Yuffie without hitting anyone.

She sidestepped it, her hand reaching out easily to grasp it.

"Constant motion! Move, move, move!" She paused. "But don't exhaust yourselves! Move and think! You have to remember to defend the area not attacked!"

She watched for a few more minutes, hoping. When she realized, she couldn't help but sigh.

About a fourth of them hadn't changed. Half of them _had_ changed, but they'd moved into a pattern. And the other fourth... well, they were on their way, even though they didn't quite get it.

They just weren't getting it. Yuffie sighed.

She stamped her foot, twice. Two quick, hard stamps that rung loud on the tatami. "FLOW LIKE OCEAN!"

And then she threw the boomerang again.

Another flurry of movement.

Again.

The boomerang hissed through the air. The students moved, desperate not to feel that _smack_ on their legs or between their shoulder blades.

She caught it and threw again. And again. And again. And again. She watched them move. She threw it over and over, watching their responses.

"_Move like THAT!_" She practically screamed at them. "Move like something is going to hit you or cut you at any minute!"

She continued to throw, but this time, she threw it over their heads. That way, they heard the hissing, but were in no actual danger.

By the time they had finished the session and completed the cool-down exercises, her arm was vaguely sore. Half of her students were sitting on the ground, absolutely exhausted.

Two girls had fled the dojo in tears.

Yuffie sighed and pulled on her day-to-day clothes. She had a funeral to plan.

* * *

_Day 20_

_02:14_

She is walking through the Palace of her childhood. She is holding her mother's hand, but she is not a child.

Her mother's hand is warm and strong in her own.

She tightens her grasp on her mother's hand, and her mother squeezes back.

Her mother stops walking. Yuffie stops with her, turning to face the woman whose voice still haunts her, sometimes.

Her mother smiles, a peaceful, loving expression.

Yuffie feels her face stretch to match her mother's smile.

Her mother's fingers linger on her face, feeling her lips, cupping her cheek. "I'm so proud of you."

Yuffie swallows tears. "I... I've tried. I don't know if I can—"

"You can. Your father did. You are not alone."

But there's something wrong. Her mother's voice isn't quite right. That sing-song, musical accent is changing...

"I know. He's always watching me. I can feel him."

"Don't be afraid. He's watching you. We both love you."

"I love you too," Yuffie says, desperate to wake up.

"I know you do. But you don't love me more than I love you," says her mother in Aeris' voice.

- - -

The cell phone rang. She cursed the fact that it received calls when charging. There was no way to silence it, no way to turn it off.

She snatched it up off its charging cradle and flipped it open.

"Hello?" She demanded.

The voice on the other end sounded about Reeve's age, male. "I'm sorry for your loss."

And then the line went dead.

Yuffie felt the tears she had swallowed in her sleep squeeze their way back into her eyes.

What the hell was going on? Who _was_ this person?

She checked the number, just as she had been doing for the past five nights. Again, it was 071923415286, the same number that had been calling her for twelve days.

What did this _mean_? What kind of person repeatedly called another person in the middle of the night?

She would have her answers soon enough.

* * *

_Day 22_

_13:26_

"And yea, there shall he, thy Emperor, lie for thirty-five days, but on the thirty-sixth day, thou shalt entomb him in Mine Element."

A commandment in the _Bourei_ _no Chosho_, the Book of the Dead. Yuffie sighed. She only had two weeks left until she would pull her father out of the air-sealed container and wrap him in his burial kimono, wrapped right over left. She had only two weeks left until she would watch Division Eleven draw the water for his coffin, until she had to help fill it.

She would do it in public. "And thou, Second: let thee bear witness and bear aid, that thy people shall aid thee when I call thee beneath." Under the watchful eyes of Da Cha O, various dignitaries, and who _knew_ how many cameras, she would fill her father's glass coffin with water.

Worse, she was supposed to do it without crying ("And thou, Second: thou shalt not weep, for thy Emperor's burial is a Day of Draught. Should it rain, thou shalt not bury thy Emperor. Should that rain be thy rain, thou shalt not bury him."). She wasn't sure how she would manage that. It wasn't like she was crying non-stop or anything. But she wasn't sure she could really actually say goodbye without breaking down.

Yuffie contemplated the day she would bury her father. The day she would drown his goldfish (_how do you drown goldfish?_ she wondered.). The day she would officially Ascend the Pagoda. The day she would become Empress of Heaven, Lady Yuffie Kisaragi.

The day she wished she could avoid.

"Second?"

She jumped, but it was just Sho Tzu.

"My hand," she acknowledged.

He bowed low to the ground. His odd little cowlick that he couldn't seem to get rid of brushed the floor.

"Second, the Highwind has been sighted."

Yuffie nodded and stood, resettling the kimono. All twelve buhmillion layers of it. It was heavy, but it wasn't so bad if she kept her chin up and her shoulders and spine straight.

If they'd sighted the Highwind, then she likely had no time to change. Damnit.

She loved kimono. She really did. But she did _not_ love the twelve-layered formal kimono. They were goddamn unwieldy.

* * *

She was covered in dust, and the Highwind kick up yet more dust, as well as blades of grass and the like as it hovered before landing. Her kimono would need extensive cleaning, but she didn't care. She was too busy watching the airship lower, noting well the seeming awkwardness as it did so. 

The hold was full, she knew. Full of timber, full of shingles, full of things Wutai now so badly needed. Emergency rations. Medications. A supply of O Negative from the Junon blood bank. Bandages. Plaster for casts. Medical equipment.

Relief supplies.

But not just that. In a locked, airtight briefcase that wasn't supposed to leave Cid's side, were three syringes: thiopental sodium, pancuronium bromide, and potassium chloride.

The three course meal of lethal injection.

Cid climbed down the ladder, that trademark grin on his face.

In his hand, he held the briefcase.

Yuffie moved towards him, her geta making noises in the dirt. She held out her hands, accepted the briefcase, the fabrics of the kimono swishing heavily as she did so.

Her jaw dropped as the doors in the hold opened and various supplies dropped from it. Somebody was lowering most of them, very carefully, from some sort of suspension device.

At the end of it, there was practically a mountain of supplies.

The airship changed position more than a little, so as not to land on the supplies, and finally landed.

"Who's flying the airship?" Yuffie demanded, blinking.

"Shera."

Yuffie shook her head, sighing, but a smile curved her lips. "She loves it as much as you do, huh?"

His only response was a grin.

* * *

_Day 24_

Yuffie wore a white kimono. Under most circumstances, she wouldn't wear the mourning colour to an execution, but this wasn't a normal circumstance.

When you were executing a man for treason, you mourned. Not for the traitor's death, but for the death of your trust.

It would be her duty, as the acting Empress, to execute the traitor herself.

She tried not to think about the fact that she had trusted Gang Wu. She tried not to think about the fact that this execution was being televised internationally. She tried not to think about the fact that Chang Sho Tzu, Higashi Yuraku, Houjou Kana, and Nishi Ichiro were even now forcing Gang Wu into a kneeling position, head bowed, and tying the silken cords around his wrists and ankles.

Honnawa usually required four people tying the victim. At least.

At length, she heard somebody (probably Sho Tzu, what with him being her Hand), clap his hands three times.

She took a deep breath, closed her eyes. When she opened her eyes, she took a step towards the shoji door, slid it open.

She blinked at the way they'd tied Gang Wu. She'd expected a kneeling position, possibly his head bowed, possibly a 'reverse prayer' position, which would be painful if he didn't have flexible shoulders.

What she'd gotten looked almost... sexual?

If he'd been wearing a yukata, it would have looked ridiculous. But no, he was wearing hakama and haori, complete with white haori-himo, the most formal colour.

They'd bent him at the waist, spread his legs, and tied his arms behind his back. In reverse prayer.

She'd known that nawajutsu paid attention to both functionality and how things looked, but this was ridiculous.

"How... How do you expect the drugs to circulate?" She asked. Her voice came out sharp.

Sho Tzu looked slightly startled. Yuraku looked guilty. She didn't know Houjou Kana or Nishi Ichiro well enough to read them, but she figured that they were surprised.

Really, what had they expected? This looked like some sort of kinky sex position, not an appropriate execution tie.

"We aren't cutting off circulation," Sho Tzu assured her.

Yuffie swallowed. She'd killed people before. She'd killed Tsen Li just a month ago. She'd killed in battle.

But this... This was different. This was closer to murder than self defence, even if she was in the right.

"Higashi, the thiopental sodium, please."

She ignored the cameras, accepting the syringe. She uncapped it. A quick application of alcohol to the needle and survey of his left arm for a metacarpal vein. Alcohol to her chosen vein... Brought the veins closer to the surface, she knew.

And then the first needle was in.

She jerked on her thumb, squeezing down until she had emptied the syringe into him.

As she pulled out the needle, Nishi Ichiro placed a thumb over the wound.

Moments later, Gang Wu went slack. Not dead, though. She could see his chest rise and fall as he breathed.

"Pancuronium bromide."

Yuraku handed the next syringe to her, and she took it. Uncapped it. Yet more sterilizing.

Within moments, the needle was in his arm again. She emptied the syringe into him.

Thirty-four seconds later, Gang Wu stilled— or at least, his chest stilled. He wasn't breathing. The respiratory muscles were paralysed.

She had approximately three minutes to administer the final injection before he suffocated.

She held out a hand. "Potassium chloride."

She uncapped it immediately after Yuraku handed it to her. It would be cruel to let him die of suffocation, even asleep.

Even if he deserved it.

She realized that she wanted to wake him up. To say, _this is your heart stopping, how does it feel?_ She wanted him to feel pain for betraying her, for orchestrating this whole damned situation.

Ultimately, he was responsible for her father's death. He was responsible for Tsen Li's invasion of the Palace, hell Tsen Li's _presence_ in her country.

She wanted to wake him up, to shake him and hit him until he knew, until he _knew_.

It must have showed on her face. Sho Tzu moved towards her, even as Yuraku and the others moved away,

She turned to face the cameras, then turned back to Gang Wu.

She sterilized the needle, sterilized his arm. The needle slipped into another untouched point on a metacarpal vein.

Gang Wu didn't so much as twitch.

She pushed her thumb down, emptying the syringe into him. The fingers of her othehr hand dug into his throat, checking his pulse.

Forty-one seconds later, Su Gang Wu went completely still. No heartbeat. No pulse.

She bowed her head, once. Mourning not Gang Wu, but the death of his good name. She mourned her father's death.

It wasn't long before the tears came.

As she left the room, still crying for her father, for the solemn dignity of the Palace she had almost lost, for the trust she'd had...

Her phone rang.

* * *

**Merge of Barbaric Past and Moronic Present: Visible Even in Death**

Kimberly Canon

Today, at 11:14 WST, South Wutai native Su Gang Wu was pronounced legally dead. The nation continues to mourn the loss of its Emperor, Godo Kisaragi, and the near-destruction of its Palace.

What they're mourning, I have no idea. The latest Emperor plunged Wutai deep into a war that lasted for over ten years. The loss of this war, which he himself caused, plunged Wutai into an economic slump. Thanks to Wutai's slump, the world's economy plunged as well.

To each his own. Except for Mr. Su: the Lady Yuffie Kisaragi turned him over to Division Six, which tried him in a military tribunal. This was a concession to Eastern legal procedure. In Wutaian tradition, a traitor to the throne receives no chance of an "honourable death," instead being executed on the spot.

However, meshing with Wutaian tradition, this "trial" was stunningly short: two days for presentation of evidence, with a decision period of under an hour. Within ten minutes, his execution was scheduled for today. Obviously, this wasn't a trial, it was a kangaroo court. Easterners talk about shotgun weddings; apparently, Wutai prefers shotgun trials.

Cid Highwind of AVALANCHE was the one to deliver the execution drugs. Again, this was a concession to Eastern procedure, with modifications. The drugs were not administered via IV, but in a horrifyingly barbaric vaccination method.

When asked how he felt about this fact, Mr. Highwind replied, "Don't much give a damn. Pity the brat's gotta do it... But the bastard deserves it."

This is yet more evidence that Wutai's moral corruption spreads. Mr. Highwind hails from Rocket Town, which is on the Western Continent's very edge. Wutai is just a chocobo ride away. For all they pretend to yield to the East's civilized procedures, they remain just as barbaric as they ever were. And it's spreading.

In yet another example of Wutai yielding to the East, but remaining fully Wutaian, the four senior members of Division Six tied Mr. Su in a honnawa— traditional Wutaian capture-tying— method. Of course, being barbarians, they couldn't just tie him in a functional manner. They had to humiliate him at his own execution by tying him in an overtly sexual position. Had the parties present, especially Mr. Su, not worn traditional clothing, the entire procedure would have been less disgusting.

My disgust doesn't stop there. In a stunning display of ridicule and disrespect, Miss Kisaragi kept a cell phone in her obi. She didn't even have the decency to turn it off. As she left the room, crying for a reason no one has bothered to explain (perhaps Wutaians aren't so barbaric after all?) her cellular phone began to ring. She answered it with a friendly eastern greeting ("Yo"), but soon turned pale.

She hung up within seconds of answering. I can only assume that this call was from a political fringe group supporting Mr. Su's right to life.

That's right: Wutai has political fringe groups. The tiny little nation that couldn't has political groups. There actually _are_ people in the country who possess political minds of their own, despite the fact that Wutai is a true monarchy.

Maybe if things keep improving, Miss Kisaragi will see the light and end the monarchy in Wutai.

—Opinion Article from the _Junon Times_, Evening Edition.

* * *

_Day 25_

—_You shouldn't cry for the likes of him._

Yuffie stared at the article Sho Tzu had been waving in her face. She threw back her head and laughed aloud.

She pounded her hand on the table. "Perhaps Wutaians aren't so barbaric after all? Maybe if things keep improving, Miss Kisaragi will see the light and end the monarchy in Wutai?" The paper fluttered to the floor. "What the hell kind of crack is this lady _on_?"

She wasn't even going to _think_ about Kimberly's opinion of her country being barbaric and _spreading it_, oh no. She'd be too tempted to track the woman down and rip her apart limb from limb.

Kimberly was totally wrong on _everything_. Sephiroth had made Wutai lose the war. Sephiroth had made Wutai's economy slump, and the Wutaian economy hadn't had an effect on the rest of the world at all.

"Who the hell _is_ this lady?" She demanded. "What the hell makes her think she has a right to say shit like that about us?"

"She is a columnist for the _Junon Times_," Sho Tzu replied.

Yuraku shook her head, sighing. "The crazy bitch has some sort of online radio column. She describes herself as 'anti-AVALANCHE, anti-Shinra, anti-WRO, anti-corporate control, and pro-intelligence' and is somewhat popular in the Junon area."

"Somewhat popular? How popular are we talking, here?"

"I don't think anybody actually listens to her. She's something of a joke... This is her first article on the front page in a three year career as a rabid political columnist."

Sho Tzu made an _I'm thinking_ sound. "Combining fact with opinion. If she continues writing this sort of article, she could well become convincing."

"If she starts convincing people that we're barbarians and morally corrupt," Yuffie's eyes took on a certain gleam, "then she's a serious threat."

"If that's possible! This woman clearly has no common sense."

"But if she keeps getting on the front page, with just enough fact and just enough to spin to make sense..."

"Then who is going to look any deeper?" Sho Tzu agreed.

Yuffie sighed, standing up and heading toward the room she'd redesigned as her office. For whatever reason, she _still_ couldn't bring herself to venture into her father's old office.

She had a funeral to plan, a rebuttal letter to draft, and a marketing campaign to begin. When had her life become so _busy_?

That weird caller had been right.

She pushed the thought away, sitting down at her desk.

* * *

— _Yo?_

— _The life of an Empress is so_ busy _,isn't_ _it?_

— _Wha?_

— _You shouldn't cry for the likes of him._

— _Who is this?_

— _It's your guardian angel._

* * *

TBC March 14, 2006 


	3. Chapter Two

**69**

**Chapter Two: The Dreamer's Entrance**

How did you get this number?  
I can't get my head 'round you  
Of course you're not coming over  
Snap out of it  
You're not making any sense

— _Psychobabble_, Frou Frou

* * *

Day 25

_12:54  
_

The phone rang.

She almost, _almost_, didn't answer it.

It turned out that it was Tifa.

"Yuffie, have you read this article by Kim Canon?"

Her friend's voice was deep, concerned. Motherly.

Yuffie felt her hands clutch the cell phone. Tifa hadn't wanted to leave. She'd wanted to stay, to take care of her, and Yuffie herself had protested. She'd finally kicked them out, though it had taken days.

The last thing she'd needed was a mother, or a father. She'd needed to face reality. She _still_ needed to face reality.

All she needed was to sit in a dark room, alone. To realize that her father was dead. That this was really happening. No, not a dream. Not a nightmare.

She needed to understand that this was _real_.

"Yuffie? Yuffie, are you there?"

"I'm here, Tifa."

"I'm guessing you read it." Tifa's voice was wry, but there was pain in that tone. Real pain.

"Yeah, I read it."

"Disgusting. I just want to find that woman and—" Tifa's stopped speaking. No warning. She just stopped.

Nice people didn't contemplate murder out loud.

Yuffie told her, completely honestly, "I'm with you."

It could have meant any number of things. _I'm here_, _I understand you_, _I want to do that too_.

Maybe it meant all of them.

She wasn't sure what she meant. The world around her seemed hazy and grey. Like it didn't matter.

And yet, at the same time, it mattered a great deal. She knew, intellectually, that she had a small country to rule. She knew, intellectually, that it made her look bad as a political figure to have a council of three senior citizens and a twerp running her country _for_ her.

And yet she just couldn't bring herself to go out and do what she needed to.

As much as she _cared_, she just couldn't _do_ anything.

She made a startling realization. So startling, it made her drop the phone.

Something was wrong with her.

* * *

Day 26

_09:17_

"Right. So, after he's wrapped and in his coffin, and the coffin has been transported to the Cemetery, then the memorial service starts," she told the back of a woman's head, which was bent over a laptop. "Traditional drummers. Fundoshi and all. Got it? _Traditional_."

"Spell fundoshi," the woman replied. "And, uh, what time are we talking? How long do you expect the, uh, burial to take? Is there any specific schedule you're on, besides that religious calendar thing? Are you renting a space? How big a space? Any specific flowers to use or avoid? Any—"

Time? Expectations? Schedule? Renting a space? Flowers? Where did she think she was, Junon?

"I have no idea. Things take however long they take. We've got an order for stuff to happen, but it's flexible. The Empress of Wutai does not _rent_ a space, she screams from the top of Da Chao. Wutai uses chrysanthemums for the burial of an Emperor. Anything else is forbidden."

"How do you get anything _done_?" The woman muttered.

Yuffie felt her head jerk around to look at the woman. Her mouth opened. She was just about to start screaming.

And then the bitch sealed her fate.

"Cripes, Canon was right. You _are_—"

"—Fuck this. You're fired. Get out of my office."

"Excuse me? How do you expect to be able to plan the funeral without me? You can't just fire me!"

She smiled at the woman. Had her eyes been anything but narrowed, the expression would have been friendly. "Yes. Yes I can. Get the fuck out of my office before I kill you myself."

She pointed. "Door's that way. Don't let it hit you in the ankle on the way out."

"The phrase is "ass", Miss Kisaragi," said the woman as she walked out. She tried the trick Yuffie had learned when she was eight— sliding the door shut as she stepped through.

The sliding frame hit the woman in the ankle.

Yuffie snickered.

Foreigners never learned.

Ever.

But her amusement didn't last. It just couldn't.

She had a funeral to plan.

_13:21_

Four hours later, Yuffie decided that she never, ever, _ever_ wanted to plan another funeral. If Cloud hit his head on a rock and forgot how to breathe, Tifa could plan the damn funeral by _herself_.

Well, Reeve might help her, but Yuffie would _not_.

On the other hand, she had a company of drummers arranged, she had a nursery in Mideel prepared to arrange a shipment of chrysanthemum blossoms ('course, it was Mideel, so they'd likely be _mutant chrysanthemums..._), and she had Division Eleven prepped.

The phone rang.

She answered it.

"Hello?" She asked.

There was silence for a moment.

"Who is this?"

"I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am about that Canon bitch."

"Who _is_ this?"

"But baby, don't you know me already?"

She slammed the phone back down on the receiver.

_13:22_

_Junon_

Hatz Patrick, Editor of the Junon Times, had hair a vivid, shocking red. Intensely red. Red like fire, red like Summon Materia, red like a rooster's crest.

It was a popular new dye: Fiery Reno Red.

He was a natural redhead, but he'd never particularly liked that colour for himself. He preferred the dye.

He was, in fact, admiring this new hair colour in a tiny hand mirror when Kim Canon barged into his office.

She had amazingly blue eyes, blue as your lips after somebody cast an Ice 3 spell on you (a bill concerning Ice 3 had just gone to legislature; he had Harry Thurman covering that one, and needed a draft by the following Thursday, damn it). Those hypothermia blue eyes were fixed on him and he fought the urge to squirm.

Her perfect pink lips opened in a perfect little 'o' as she began to immediately speak upon opening the door to his office.

The hand mirror vanished back into his sleeve. "Yes, Kim?"

The question was pointless. It was only on paper that she was vicious, at least halfway pithy, and amazingly good at getting her point across. Well, the vicious was constant. Everything else, though, tended to vanish.

Especially the pithy.

"Anyway, Hatz, I love you dearly," she continued, completely disregarding the fact that he hadn't heard the first half of what she'd said, "but I simply _cannot_ blah-blah-blah oh my god that tie clashes with blah-blah-blah don't you know that you look good in blah-blah-blah..."

He caught the words _tie_, _clashes_ and _look good_ and immediately started tuning her out.

Fashion wasn't his strong point, and he happened to _like _it that way. Fewer people hit on him, that way.

When she was done, she sucked in a new breath and looked at him with something like expectance on her face. "Well?"

"Well what?"

"Don't you agree?"

"Oh absolutely," he replied.

He had learned over the past three years that with Kim, it didn't matter whether you knew what you were agreeing to or not. She didn't expect you to follow up on it anyway, and she'd probably be happier if you didn't. Bitching about how nobody kept their word was the closest thing Kim had to a hobby.

Well, aside from watching snuff films.

He smiled at her. "Kim, you _do_ know that I'm going to need that draft by Monday, right?"

She rolled her eyes. When she spoke, it was with an exaggeratedly patient voice. And also, extremely slowly. "Hatz, darling, I just _told_ you: I've already _sent_ it. It should be in your email inbox _right now_. I want my cheque in my box by Tuesday." As she left the room, Hatz heard her mumble, "Honestly, I get the impression nobody _listens_ to me..."

* * *

Day 31

_17:40_

Yuffie screamed, rolled up the newspaper, and threw it across the room.

That stupid bitch. That stupid _bitch_.

Where in the Junon constitution did it say you could make _false_ allegations about the sexual orientation of the rulers of other countries? Speculate about their being interested in bestiality?

She screamed again, lashed out with her foot. Her foot caught itself just under the underside of her table and wound up flinging the table across the room. It crashed hard onto the tatami.

That wasn't enough destruction.

On her way out of the room, sliding the shoji door open with a rough jerk, she came to an abrupt stop.

Did Canon have a point? A good point? Was she only good for destroying stuff?

No, it couldn't be true. They had Materia now. They had beading. She had a country to rule, and when she wasn't ruling or training, she could... She could string the beads, or at least help with it.

Canon was wrong.

Right?

_23:00_

_Gold Saucer_

The call he received from Tifa, he nearly didn't take. He almost never answered his PHS, and certainly not during work hours. But he noted that Tifa had used the emergency line.

In as few words as possible, he explained to his players that he needed to take the call. He adjusted his vest calmly, toying with the PHS' belt clip with two fingers.

He moved away from his table with quick, measured steps. The PHS flipped open under his fingers even as he moved past the floor boss (affectionately— barely— dubbed Pit Bull some ten years earlier).

Pit Bull glared at him. Vincent warded him off with the hand signal for "it's an emergency." The heavier, older-looking man growled, but left him alone.

"Valentine," he murmured into the PHS.

Tifa's voice was frantic. "Vincent, have you read the Junon Times?"

"No."

He read the Da Chao Scribe, the Corel Free Press, and the Gold Saucer Lights. Anything else, he regarded as irrelevant.

"Have you heard Kim Canon's talk show?"

"No."

He didn't listen to the radio. The Saucer provided him with enough stimulation. When he got off shift, he wanted nothing more than sleep.

"Then I'd _start_ reading those— no, wait, she has back ups on her website— read _Barbaric Past_ and, erm, next one is..." a pause, "_Classic Entertainment_. That's the one."

"Very well." The Saucer had an internet cafe— if need be, he could use it. "But why?"

Tifa was silent for a long time. "I'm worried about Yuffie. All these editorials? They're about Wutai. Yuffie doesn't need this kind of crap. Not right now. Not right after—"

They left _that_ unsaid.

But why was she suggesting he read it, unless she wanted him to do something about it?

At long last, he asked, "And?"

"And nothing. Just read it. Please."

"As you wish."

* * *

_Day 32_

_07:18_

He slid into one of the hard plastic chairs in the cafe. This one, he knew, operated between 21:00 and 09:00.

Around him, everything was decorated in black and green. The announcements on the walls were all in one of those stereotypical computer-looking fonts. Months and years of... who knew what, really, had left the walls stained and the posters smeared. The letters on the announcements looked smudged.

Despite the fact that Gold Saucer was bright 24/7, almost no light penetrated the establishment's blackout shades. The only illumination came from the flat-screened monitors and the dim, purplish glow of the blacklights.

Automatically, from long training, he began listing entrances, exits, possible hiding places. Possible weapons. Possible combatants.

But there was nothing here, really. Aside from the electronics and the chairs. Possibly the tables?

The only possible combatants were those who dubbed themselves "hardcore online gamers." They bore that slightly pinched look of people who did not eat or sleep enough. He could see bags under their eyes. Pale faces. Thin arms and legs. Hunched posture, eyes wide and staring at the glowing screens in front of them.

Almost like zombies.

They weren't threats.

He booted up the computer in front of him, logging into the account that allowed him 45 minutes of internet access.

The entire system was ingenious. Each computer had several accounts, which would run for a set period of time. In order to log into an account, one purchased a password from the counter. As soon as a password was used, the account's password changed, necessitating the purchase of another password when the time ran out.

How this worked out for these "hardcore gamers," he didn't know.

Seeker provided him with 13,000 results in 0.34 seconds. It also provided him with the option of viewing news results relating to Kim Canon.

He clicked the link to her official website.

On the right column, he noted the word "archives." A few lines down were links to the articles Tifa had wanted him to read.

He clicked first on "Merge of Barbaric Past and Moronic Present: Visible Even in Death."

As he read, he found his jaw clenching.

This... harlot was attacking Yuffie. Attacking Cid. Attacking Godo and Wutai and—

He glared at the screen. Did this woman have no shame? So soon after Godo's death, so soon after the Palace nearly burned down. How could anyone be so blind, so cruel, as to say such things so soon?

"Classic Entertainment, Island Style" didn't make him any happier.

This woman was barely human. What kind of person made allegations about another's sexual preferences— bordering on references to bestiality and _incest_— when their victim was working through an immense personal tragedy?

Perhaps because he was a masochist, he continued reading the woman's articles.

The articles between "Barbaric Past" and "Classic Entertainment" only enraged him further.

He reached for his belt, slipping the PHS from its clip and dialling Tifa's number.

"Lockhart and Strife Residence. Tifa speaking," he heard her say.

"I did as you asked," he informed her, barely able to keep his rage out of his voice.

Within, the demons screamed and rioted. Chaos encouraged his anger. Galian and Hellmasker imagined killing this harlot, though Galian was the only one to imagine the expression on Yuffie's face when she learned that Kimberly Canon was dead.

"What did you think?"

He refused to answer. He wouldn't be able to control himself.

It didn't help that his left canine had just sharpened, lengthened, until it was like one of the fangs of a wolf.

"Vincent?"

"I disapprove," he admitted after Tifa probed him four more times.

She had won.

Damn her, she had _won._

He had no idea what he was going to do about this, but he was going to do something.

* * *

Deep in the night  
Far off the light  
Missing my headache  
Visions of light  
Sweeter delight  
Kissin' my loveache  
How come I must know  
Where obsession needs to go?  
How come I must know  
Where the passion hides its feelings?

— _Obsession_, Kajiura Yuki (Bee Train)


	4. Chapter Three

**69**

How did you get this number?  
I can't get my head 'round you  
Of course you're not coming over  
Snap out of it  
You're not making any sense

—_Psychobabble_, Frou Frou

**Chapter Three: Hangdog Return**

_Day 32_

_07:32_

Four days. She had four days.

She was going to go nuts. Absolutely nuts.

She missed him, damn it. She didn't want to bury him.

Yuffie stared at the shoji door. It was just a door. A contraption of wood and rice paper. Light, incredibly light. It would slide open with ease.

There was no writing on or near it. The only way one would know it had once been her father's office was by knowing the layout of the Palace.

This was where her father had worked. Had made deals. Had bled and cried and signed and built and torn down. If he hadn't been here, he had been in the throne room.

There had been times her father had fallen asleep in there.

Her hand, trembling and pale (when did she get so pale? She didn't know), touched the groove in the door. Her fingers curled, her arm jerked. The door slid open.

She walked in almost silently. Reverently.

The place smelled of her father. That was the problem. That was why she hadn't wanted to go in.

But now that she was inside, she saw how bare the room was. Just as she had remembered it.

There, on the wall opposite the eastern-style desk, hung the same wall scroll she'd seen the last time she had ventured here. A single word adorned it: _duty_.

In front of the desk were a single tatami mat and a floor pillow. Behind it was a single eastern-style chair.

The executive office.

The desk had a phone on it, she noted, and a few writing utensils. A Wutaian calendar, as well as an eastern one.

On an out-of-the-way corner of the desk, under the clutter, someone had pasted up little quotes. From journals, magazines, newspapers.

She read them and nearly cried. Almost all of them were things having to do with her or her mother. A few were about Wutai.

She sat in the chair, unlocking his desk and sifting through its contents. The scent of him that remained in his chair invaded her nostrils.

Within moments, her elbows planted themselves on the desk. She held her head in her hands and began to sob.

The telephone began to ring.

She answered it.

"Don't cry, baby. I'm watching you," the person on the other end told her.

Her hand tightened on the phone. "Who _is_ this?"

"Baby, it's your guardian angel. Don't you remember me? I understand that you're going through a rough time right now, but I'd had hopes..."

"Hopes? Rough time? You don't know the half of it." Her voice was bitter, sounded choked. "What do you _want_ from me?"

"Nothing at all, my little Empress. Just live your life, and don't worry. I'm watching out for you."

She hung up.

Her heart was pounding in her chest in a rapid beat, throwing itself against her ribcage as if trying to break out and fly away.

The phone rejoined the cradle and she swallowed, taking deep breaths. She forced her heartbeat to calm, to slow.

She was in her father's office. Guarded by _how_ many ninja. She had the Conformer at her side. She had beaten the shit out of Sephiroth.

There was no damn reason for Kisaragi Yuffie to be afraid. No reason at all.

Who was _he_, huh? A nameless, faceless hack. So in "awe" of her that he couldn't even talk to her face-to-face. So afraid of her that he couldn't even tell her his name.

She was _not_ going to be afraid of this idiot.

So why were there butterflies in the pit of her stomach?

And why did those butterflies not go away until she spoke to Sho Tzu about increasing the Palace guard?

* * *

_Day 32_

_09:03_

_Junon_

Kim Canon should not have looked half as human as she did. Not this early in the morning. Most normal people, he knew, were still allowing their coffee to wake them and make them real and whole.

But here she was, typing away, talking on an office telephone, and laughing with a co-worker about their newspaper's rival needing to issue a correction.

As the co-worker brushed past him, out of the room, Vincent found himself wondering if humanity existed.

He moved into the office-- cramped, tiny, cluttered with pretty things-- with silent steps. She did not realize he was there until, gently, one finger pressed the connection key.

She gasped, looked up. Head turned.

He knew the instant she figured out who he was. The ear-splitting scream was a bit of a give-away.

She began to fumble with her desk drawers. Likely looking for a weapon of some sort.

He closed the drawers. Removed a keyring from the purse she'd left sitting on the desk, found the correct key, locked the drawers. Tossed the keys into the wastebasket in the opposite corner. Then he placed his hand on the spine of her ergonomic chair. His hand tightened. His arm jerked.

The chair swivelled away from the desk.

She nearly fell out of it, her expression clearly terrified. She swallowed, smoothed her expression into something resembling 'impassive'. Trying to put a brave face on it.

"What are you doing here?"

Her voice cracked.

He was not going to giggle like an amused madman. He was NOT going to giggle like an amused madman. No, really, he wasn't.

He didn't so much as smile. When he spoke, his voice was smooth. Cold. The way it had been as a TURK on a job-- not not _not_ the way it had sounded, begging Lucrecia to just _think_ about what she was doing, not the way it had sounded begging Hojo. Impersonal.

"Your articles are--" (_irritating, infuriating, incorrect_) "not amusing."

"_Serious_ journalism is _never_ funny," she assured him.

"What you do is hardly serious journalism."

"On the contrary! I beg to differ."

"Beg all you want. It's muck-raking."

"I prefer 'delving into the factual unconscious'."

"Muck-raking. Without facts."

"Oh, there are facts."

That was the last straw. That this-- this-- ugh, why were words from Galian's language invading his mind?-- crazy bitch would dare to claim there was truth in what she said... He wanted to kill her more than he had before. "Cite your sources."

She smirked. Adjusted her seat in the chair, one leg crossing over the other with a slithering sound. "My sources requested that I not mention their names. Confidentiality." She smirked, made a slight 'hmph' sound. "Confidentiality. Such a bitch, isn't it."

His response was to unholster the Outsider. He slid back the safety, cocked the hammer.

Canon's smug expression melted from her face.

"A .40 S&W," he told her, expression grim, "is far better at being a bitch than a nonexistent confidentiality agreement. Particularly when it enters your frontal lobe at cranium-shattering speed."

"I'm legally bound not to tell you!" She gasped. "I couldn't even list their names in my notes! But they're real people! I'll give you my notes if you want!"

He nodded. "I would appreciate that."

At that instant, the telephone rang.

She froze up.

"I am going to put it on speaker. And you are going to behave normally." He tilted the handset from the cradle, pressed the speaker button. In a smooth motion, he slid the Outsider's safety back on and holstered it.

"Kim," a man's voice groaned, "I've got about four more letters from the directors demanding your resignation."

"Hatz, I'm not doing it. I'm not resigning."

"Then for the love of bog and all his holy angels, will you turn over your notes? Give us proof that you're not just being provocative to be provocative. You make the shareholders nervous."

"You have to admit, my pieces sell. I'll make copies. Hand them over. Give you my recordings." She eyed Vincent, the panic on her face clear.

So. She honestly believed she had something real going. She honestly believed that she was selling facts.

He raised an eyebrow. On a post-it note, he scribbled a demand for her notes.

Swallowing, trembling, she pointed at a file cabinet. Said file cabinet was covered in bizarre refrigerator magnets. Poking fun at an era he'd grown up in. A classic swing-era stay-at-home mother informed a person on the other end of a telephone, "I'm sorry, I'll be right back. The kids chewed through their straps again."

He took the notes from the file cabinet. Most of them were interview transcripts. Occasionally, a neat, round hand had etched comments on the printouts. Most of them were conjectures. Notes to follow-up. Reminders to research one thing or another. Queries as to how things fitted in.

She might be a heinous bitch, he realized, but she did her research. She did legitimate research. And then she spun it around, twirling it and twisting it like spaghetti on a fork, until it said completely the opposite of what was meant.

Muck-raking was too good a word.

As he put the notes back, moving silently through halls that should have noticed him but didn't, he wondered how she managed to seem so human at nine in the morning, when she was evidently a subhuman species.

* * *

_Day 32_

_11:13_

_Kalm_

Tifa blinked as Vincent walked into the bar. "We're just starting to serve the lunch crowd," she told him. "Unless you're here on personal reasons?"

A single nod. And then he was moving to the back of the bar, into the house.

Tifa blinked. She half-turned to watch him, suddenly wary.

His spine was straight. His muscles were clearly coiled tight as a spring. Taut. Rigid. He would be exceptionally terse today. Was she looking at stress or at anger? She was willing to bet anger.

As soon as she could, she headed back to the house.

He was sitting in the kitchen, stiff. Beside him, Barrett was visiting with Marlene. Looking for oil and other sources of energy kept him away from Kalm most of the time.

"So, what idea you got in yer damn fool head now, Valentine?" Barrett asked, peering at the other man out of the corner of his eye.

Vincent, if possible, got stiffer. "I do not have any particular notion. I have… spoken with the author of this—"

"—dat's bullshit. You didn't _talk_ to her. You scared the _shit_ out of 'er, didn't you?"

"Daddy, watch your mouf!" Marlene hissed.

Tifa nearly died of the cute. But Vincent had shown up for a reason. She had no choice but to ask— but before that, she'd have to—

She turned to Marlene. "Sweetie, why don't you go play outside, hm?"

Marlene nodded and leapt off her chair. She padded out of the room, smiling brightly. Unaware of what the grown-ups were going to do.

That was as it should have been. There was no reason for Marlene to hear this.

She hated asking it. "You _did_ scare her, though, didn't you?"

Vincent looked toward her, then looked away. "She twists words, Tifa. Casual statements, poorly-translated exaggerations... They all take on— significance when she cites them."

"That's not what I asked." She leaned forward, giving the side of his face an earnest look. "Please, did you deliberately frighten her?"

He shook his head once. It was a restrained gesture, but there was something taut in it. "I did not attempt to frighten her."

Tifa sighed. "Did you at any point draw your gun on her?"

Vincent was so mild-mannered, usually. But when people he regarded as enemies frustrated him… All bets were off. Usually, Tifa had noticed, he retreated into a TURK-like persona, coldly threatening their lives until he had what he felt he needed.

He'd even killed enemies, on occasions. His first instinct after Yuffie betrayed them had been to kill her.

His first instinct after a lot of nasty incidents had been to kill.

When he nodded, she felt a cold, hard stone form in her stomach. All her muscles— especially the ones in her torso— clenched. Dread filled so much of her that she could feel its pebbles under her tongue.

She wasn't going to beat her head against the table. She wasn't. But the urge was so strong.

"You idiot," she said when she wasn't going to be screaming. "What were you _thinking_?"

He shook his head. Crossed his arms. He was on the defensive, now. "You wanted her dealt with. I dealt with her."

"My god," the words fell out of her mouth and buzzed in the air, like flies around a cadaver, "did you _kill_ her?"

Abrupt movement: he uncrossed his arms and turned to glare directly at her. Translation: she had offended him. "No. But she won't write—"

"—no, what you've done is given her _more_ reason to hate AVALANCHE! Drawing your gun on her was the _worst_ thing you could have done!"

"She gonna come back, Valentine. You c'n bet yo' ass on that one." Barrett peered at the other man. For a moment, he seemed— old. Tired. "An' she gonna be worse than befo'."

What Vincent did next was not wilting. It wasn't the drooping head and hunched shoulders of a crestfallen or admonished puppy. But he visibly folded in on himself, closing himself up.

His chin touched his chest, his shoulders hunched, his arms crossed. He closed his eyes.

After a moment, he straightened. Stiffened. "You are… right. But—"

She wasn't going to let him get off that easily. "No buts, Vincent," Tifa said, voice quiet but firm. "There were other choices, even if you couldn't see them. There are always other choices."

"How pacifistic for an eco-terrorist." His voice was as close as it got to acidic: a specifically chilly tone, one that foretold an endless, bitter winter.

"You asshole," Barrett thumped his fist on the table. "Valentine, yo' a goddamn _idiot_, that's what you are!"

"And Miss Lockheart was not an eco-terrorist? You did not take the name of a group renowned for its ruthless tactics and use it to destroy innocent lives?"

"You were a fuckin' Turk, Valentine, you got no room t' judge!"

"And in what way does this make me better or worse than the re-founder of AVALANCHE?"

_Mountain-god_, Tifa found herself thinking in Nibel, the language she'd been born to, _when did our hearts start holding so much poison?_

"You fuckin' asshole!"

"You curse me because you cannot deny that your actions may have killed more innocent people than mine."

Tifa slammed her fist onto the kitchen counter. Dishes rattled. "Barrett Wallace, Vincent Valentine, stop that this instant! This entire argument is childish! What happened can't un-happen, you know that!"

Vincent turned to look at her. The complete lack of expression on his face was disturbing. He said nothing. He merely looked at her for a long moment. He wasn't glaring, his eyes hadn't narrowed; he was just looking at her, not speaking.

His most dangerous silence.

How dare he? She wondered. How fucking _dare_ he look at her like that, when he had been the one to do something stupid?

Fuming, she punched the counter again. All the glasses in a cupboard jumped, causing the shelves to collapse and take the glasses with it. The glasses and cupboard broke loudly.

"We can't un-do what you did. Beating you— or yourself— up about it isn't going to fix this. And judging each other isn't going to solve anything, either."

"Then what would you have me do?"

Tifa shook her head, sighing. "We're going to have to make statements. Refute her. Show the world that she's wrong. Considering who AVALANCHE used to be, and what we did in our early days, and what _you_ did…"

Another sigh. There was just no way, was there?

"…we'll probably never get _our_ reputation back, but her obviously racist statements? Those we can disprove. Probably. Eventually."

"Was she crazy?" Barrett asked.

Vincent shook his head. "No. Frustrating, yes. And she twists words until they mean the opposite of what was said."

"Barrett, are you saying we say she's hard to handle, and Vincent had to act like a Turk to get anything out of her at all?" Tifa eyed them. "Is that… the truth?"

Vincent nodded.

"All right then. But even if we make statements, she'll get worse before she gets better. Somebody needs to help Yuffie handle that."

"Then I will go. I am… the root of her further pain. I should help her bear it."

Tifa nodded. "Then the rest of us will tell the world what's _really_ happening in Wutai."

Vincent nodded, once, and left.

Tifa gripped the edge of the counter. Her head bowed. Without saying a word, she began to cry. Barrett stood, holding her in his arms. "Hush yo' mouth, honeychil'."

* * *

_Day 33_

_Wutai_

Wutai looked much the same as it always had. Clusters of flowers he assumed were signs of mourning in North Wutai dangled from roofs and lantern strings. Even so, all around him, Wutai throbbed and bustled. The Emperor was dead, but business was good. The steer were fat and meaty, the harvest was going to be heavy.

All around him, people were moving and talking. Trading goods and money and insults, jests, news. The city teemed with life. A new ruler in the Pagoda wouldn't change the fact that their wallets were full of gil and their larders were full of food.

But Godo's death, even amidst the joy of living, was omnipresent.

Everywhere he looked, he saw streams of white ribbon. The closer to the Pagoda he moved, the darker the streamers became. White tanned until it was cream, which bled into grey, which darkened until it was black.

Bright yellow silk covered Ashura's Chime. The colour's cheery nature seemed vastly incongruous. The intent, he knew, was to protect their goddess from the sorrow of the affair. In the laws set down in the _Mizu no Chosho_'s third book, failing to protect Ashura from sorrow risked Leviathan's wrath.

Vincent sighed. Yuffie had always been pious— even more so after she'd defeated her father to receive Leviathan's materia, But this felt hollow. Yellow wasn't the colour he had usually seen used. Something else was going on here.

At the door to the Palace, he paused. Three guards stepped out of the shadows, but he ignored them.

A thin strip of white paper marked the door. One end, he noted with growing horror, was that red-brown peculiar to dried blood.

A figure in the hallway light  
Returning like a ghost  
Something that was left behind  
Something in a child's mind...  
Bury my lovely  
Hide in your room  
Bury my lovely...  
Bury the lies  
Bury me under   
A thousand good-byes  
A shadow from another time  
Is waiting in the night  
Something happened long ago  
Something that will not let go

— _Bury My Lovely_, October Project


	5. Chapter Four

**Star 69**

How did you get this number?  
I can't get my head 'round you  
Of course you're not coming over  
Snap out of it  
You're not making any sense

—_Psychobabble_, Frou Frou

**Chapter Four: Warning Signs**

_Day 33_

_16:48_

_Wutai_

Vincent Valentine stared at that slip of paper. A means of warding one's home from evil, he knew. If it worked, would his demons be able to pass?

"What is the meaning of this?" He demanded of the guards who had appeared.

"That's none of your business," the nearest guard replied. "We don't talk to _gaijin_ anymore."

He nodded.

The guard's eyes narrowed. "That means you. And you're not going in, either."

Vincent glared. This was a Seventh Hell Doom Glare, guaranteed to melt brains in sixty seconds.

The guards backed away. "We're not going to let you hurt her," said the farthest.

"I do not wish to hurt her."

The second-nearest guard edged closer. "She said you'd say that."

Yuffie had been expecting him? And didn't wish to see him? So she was angry, then. But why? Did she hate him for that kiss? Did she hate him for walking away?

"She told you to turn me away?" A pause. "Me specifically?"

"Uh." Not one of the guards seemed to know the answer to that. Only the second guard seemed to have anything to say. "She just said to turn foreigners away, even if they said they meant her no harm."

"Ah. I am a friend of hers. Vincent Valentine."

"Sounds foreign," guard one said. "Prove you know her."

Vincent pulled out his PHS. He tapped the yellow button, holding out the speak-end to the guards, so that all of them could hear.

Yuffie answered. Her voice was wary, thin and sleepy. "Vinnie?"

"You have very zealous guards," he replied.

"I'd say sorry, but I'm not."

She didn't say anything further for a little while. The guards looked at each other and then at him; he had proven them wrong, likely throwing them for a loop.

At length, Yuffie said, "Come on in. Let him through."

The guards blinked and backed away. Vincent didn't gloat. It was not in his nature, and it would only prove to his disadvantage. People liked poor winners about as much as poor losers, and being on ill terms with Yuffie's soldiers wasn't likely to put him on good terms with Yuffie. Instead, he moved toward the door they had watched.

The _kekkai_—or was it an _o-fuda_? Both used _kotodama_, words of Power, and both required blood—did not impede the door's movement or his ability to put his hand in the grip.

Inside, nothing had changed. The presence of the protective ward was his only hint that anything beyond grief plagued the household. The halls were as neat as ever. The koi swam serenely in their pond. They must have brought Godo comfort. He stared at the greenery, at the stillness of the water and the vacuous mouthing of the koi. Their tranquillity must have seemed comforting or even pleasant to the aging Emperor.

He merely saw that they were fish. Simple, ignorant animals. They were incapable of knowing or thinking. Even if they _had_ been capable of knowing, they would have nothing to know beyond a sheltered pond.

What Yuffie herself might see in them, he could only guess.

He turned away from the pond to see Yuffie standing outside her father's room.

"I didn't think it'd be this hard," she told him.

The sorrow in her voice and defeat in her posture, the suddenly frail cast to bones that had once seemed birdlike, made him want to enfold her in his arms. He saw Godo's death take its toll on her, he wanted to reverse it, to hold her and comfort her and—he couldn't bring himself to do it. So he moved toward her instead, forcing his spine straight and his head high, wishing she could remember the pride of who she was. A year before, she'd had that pride in abundance.

"Nobody does."

"I still miss him." Her voice was soft, nearly a whisper, and slurred: tired. But her eyes were awake, if resting deep in their sockets.

"That will lessen with time." _Much time. Years, most likely_, he thought but did not say.

She drifted toward him. "I hate living here." Step, step. _Tabi_-clad feet made bare whispers across the floor.

"So move," he replied. "Live in your mother's house."

She took another step nearer. He bridged the gap between them, small though it had been.

"Build a new palace. Refurbish this one. Leave Da Cha O." He smiled for her. It was the least he could do. "Flee society completely—live in a hut on the mountain."

She laughed, then. The sound was nothing like the laugh of a year earlier, but the mirthful nature was a start. Even better, she wrapped her arms around his middle.

He wondered why he had been so reluctant to return. She had obviously needed him—needed them all. Sending them away hadn't been her best idea. Cooperating, however, had been equally unwise. He wrapped his arms around her, hugging her close.

"How long are you staying here?" She murmured into his chest.

"As long as you want."

He heard her take a deep breath and then breathe out heavily. "Where are you staying?"

Vincent shook his head, and then realized she couldn't see it. He heaved out a sigh and said nothing, letting her draw her own conclusions.

Yuffie didn't disappoint. She lifted her head to look at him. Wide grey eyes in a hollowed, pale face went wider. "You don't have any plans, do you?"

He shook his head again.

"Then stay here." She was stick thin and reedy, like the tall, whistling river grass by the River Leviathan, but her voice came out strong and sure.

"As you wish," he replied.

She smiled, and it was the wan smile from a month ago. The drawn, pinched, stressed thing he had disliked so much. Gang Wu lay at the root of that smile, already dead and Vincent wanted to kill the man. That Yuffie herself had executed Gang Wu didn't matter; he wanted to rip him to shreds with the claw.

But somewhere in those haunted-looking eyes—_just the way she looked after Aeris died, after Sephiroth, after Meteor_—he saw the faintest sign of hope.

It wasn't enough, nowhere near enough, but it would do.

"Three days," Yuffie told his chest. "Three days until the funeral."

"Ready?"

She shook her head. He could feel her breath through his shirt and shifted slightly. "Never."

He placed his good hand on the back of her head. He wanted to tell her that everything would be fine, but he didn't know that for certain. Things in life didn't _really_ turn out for the best; they turned out the way they turned out, and people went on as best they could.

That this tragedy would destroy her, crippling her ability to rule Wutai, was entirely possible. He would do anything he could to help her bear it, but the truth was—almost every ruler Ascended the Pagoda in the midst of tragedy. For the Second to take the throne, the Emperor had to die. Godo would have prepared her for that. She had withstood the loss of Aeris; the loss of her father, while crushing, should not make her crumble like this.

The _o-fuda_, an unusual colour protecting Ashura, the doubled guards and new mistrust of foreigners: all of it hinted that something deeper and darker than her father's death had gone wrong.

"Something is wrong."

Yuffie gave a short, bitter bark. "Were you here _at all_ a month ago?"

"Do not lie. That is not all that troubles you."

She shrugged. "I'm in the middle of a _shitstorm_, Vincent. Kim Canon—"

"—an _o_-_fuda_ is no use against one who does not come in person. Do not lie to me."

Sighing, she looked away.

Vincent stared down at her, trying to discern whatever he could. But he learned little. Her condition told him only that her grief and stress had marked her significantly. Her body language gave no clue to the source of her distress. So he watched her and said nothing for a little while. She replied to his silence with silence of her own, a rarity, and that worried him as well.

"Tell me," he said at last.

"I want to handle it on my own."

She turned away from him, moving nearly soundlessly on nightingale floors. The carelessly-buttoned shorts slid on her hips as they moved. They were baggy enough at the thigh that she almost looked healthy.

Yuffie paused only to tell him, "You can have the spare room. You know where to find it."

And then she left.

* * *

_17:04_

"You wanted to talk to me?"

Yuffie eyed Sho Tzu. He was holding a bouquet—a vase, really, as there weren't many flowers. His brow had furrowed and his worry was almost palpable. What, did he want some sort of advice on girls? Like _she_ was the person to give it if he did.

"We just received these. For you." He held out the tall vase.

Yuffie laughed. "Did you screw something up, so you're trying to stay on my good side by bringing me flowers?"

She was almost certain, though, that her suggestion wasn't the case. Sho Tzu wasn't that sort. If he messed up, which he almost never did, he told her up front, she forgave him up front, and they fixed it together.

The crease between his eyebrows deepened. "I did not. It was an anonymous gift." He made eye contact. "Is there something you wish to tell us?"

"No." Yuffie reached out for the bouquet. He gave it to her.

The arrangement of the flowers looked professionally done. It obeyed the usual aesthetic ethics of _ikebana_: a single branch from a cherry tree accompanied by three long-stemmed "lesser" flowers—pale, of course. The cherry branch likely came from an indoor greenhouse, as the _sakura _festivals had come and gone, and so had most of the petals from the cherry trees. The "lesser" flowers had white blossoms and large leaves. They were hybrids, she knew, bred for long stems and small buds.

Somebody had taped a tiny unmarked envelope to the vase.

Yuffie ripped the envelope off and opened it. It contained a white card, plain. The card's message was just as simple and understated as the envelope and bouquet:

_Don't be afraid._

_—Your Guardian Angel_

She felt her face twist; her brows furrowed and jaw clenched tight. A strangled sound, somewhere between a disgusted "ugh" and a half-sob, rose in her throat and she hurled the vase at the wall. It struck one of the wooden supports and shattered.

Sho Tzu's alarm became even more palpable. He didn't move from his position, but she could hear the high rattling sound of his wakizashi trembling in their sheaths, the thin metal keening of strangling wires crossing.

"I want a list of the names and addresses of every foreigner living in Da Cha O."

Exactly what he thought of that order, Sho Tzu kept to himself. His face was perfectly blank as he pressed his fist against his heart and then bowed. He excused himself silently.

As soon as he was gone, Yuffie collapsed onto the nearest _zabuton_. The floor pillow made a faint sound as her knees collided with it.

What the hell was going on? Was this a genuine stalker, or some sort of scare tactic? Did Kim Canon have anything to do with this, or was this just, as her father had once quoted, "ascribing the flight of the fireflies to the nearest pretty girl"?

Neither answer seemed right. Who in the world would want to stalk _her_, of all people? But it seemed farfetched to blame every evil on Canon.

And now that he, whoever he was and why-ever he was doing this, had graduated to sending gifts… What was next?

* * *

_18:52_

Vincent stared at the clothing he had unpacked. He couldn't quite remember unpacking. Or packing, really. The trip to Wutai had been one long blur of guilt and fury. He'd _reacted_, not _thought_.

It was almost exactly the same as what had happened just over a month before. He'd reacted to the sight of Yuffie jumping from the statue. There hadn't been time for thought. And, honestly, he hadn't wanted to think.

The mid-evening shadows began to shift. They slanted in from the shoji walls, casting the room in a chiaroscuro of grey and making the floor look almost like a cage. The dark bars that lay across the floor began to squirm and writhe.

Vincent blinked.

The world went hazy, as if seen through a wave of heat. Everything seemed to have the funhouse-shimmer over it.

The quiet sounds of nineteen hundred in Heavenly Da Cha O turned, slowly, to radio static.

By the time his vision cleared, the shadows had formed words:

_watching you watching _

_watching you watching_

The growl was rumbling from his chest almost before he knew he was angry. That Chaos would speak again in this place. That Chaos could and would violate the laws binding a hallowed place. Barriers signed in blood should have _bound_ him, should have _silenced_ him.

If the demons could speak even now, then did that mean they were truly part of him?

His vision blurred again, even as his knees went weak. He caught himself automatically, thrusting out his hand to keep his torso from hitting the floor.

The shadows twisted again, this time reading:

_eyes burn holes in her head_

And the radio static in his ears became Galian's enraged howl, Death Gigas' desperate grunts, the high, shrieking whine of Hellmasker's chainsaw. And somewhere in there, he could feel it in his shoulder blades, Chaos was laughing his deep, rumbling, the world has collapsed laugh.

He forced himself to calm his breathing. His heartbeat was a fast, rattling, thunderous motor is his chest. It wouldn't seem to slow, no matter what he did.

And even though their voices had faded, the static hadn't receded. They had more to say.

"Explain," he demanded, voice harsh and grating.

He hauled himself to his feet and staggered forward. But the next—whatever it was, hallucination, vision, delusion—hit him with enough force that he fell again. This time, he couldn't even break his fall.

And this time, something clawed words into the wooden floor just a few centimetres from his nose.

_SHE EXILED HUNTED AFRAID PACK NOW_

Galian. There as no doubt about it. The claw-marks, the limited vocabulary. The direct, almost confrontational style.

This made it much clearer. For Galian, each word contained clear meaning. The wolf-demon had always used 'she' to refer specifically to Yuffie.

Exiled. To be in hell.

Hunted. To be ruthlessly tracked, planned for, watched, and then killed.

Pack. To be loved, to be protected by, to be protected by oneself, to be owed honour and duty to.

Galian's words, little as he liked them, explained nearly everything. The suspicion. The xenophobia. The little oddities like the colour of the silk over Ashura's chime, the _o-fuda_. It all made sense.

* * *

_19:04_

The _shoji _door slammed open.

Yuffie startled and flew to the nearest weapon, which happened to be an antique katana with its _seiya_ nailed to the wall. With a metallic groan, the sword slid from the sheath. She whirled around, striking out with the slim blade.

A horrible metal squeal filled the room.

Yuffie stared as Vincent's claw caught the katana between two talons.

His eyes narrowed. The two talons closed. The claw bit down.

The sword's tip clattered to the floor.

She heaved in a deep breath. They stood there, her holding the hilt of a broken sword, him gripping the blade, for a few seconds. Before she could speak, he _growled_.

"What has you jumping at shadows, Yuffie?" His voice was cold, almost completely without emotion. And that was one of the worst signs.

"I told you, I want to handle it myself."

"Perhaps you have not noticed what a poor job of handling it you are doing." Anger crept into his voice, making syllables taut and lifting the pitch and volume of 'handling' just a little. Just enough.

Yuffie reeled backward, almost stunned from the sudden sting. That he would react like that hadn't occurred to her. And it _hurt_.

So she pulled the sword free of his claw, bent to pick up the fallen tip. Saying nothing. There was nothing to say that one.

She shoved the broken tip back into the _seiya_, then the rest of the katana in after it. Narrowing her eyes, she took a step backward.

Perfect. From the outside, at least, nobody would be able to tell that the sword was broken.

Vincent stepped forward, rubbed one human finger along the sheath, then turned to stare at her. He forced eye contact. "Let me help. Please."

"It's not like there's anything you can—"

"—That's a lie. You sent us away—"

"—You _walked_ away, Vincent, you walked away from me like you always do. You _never stop running_ so how the hell do you think you can help me?"

Vincent flinched. His eyes closed and he took in a deep, shuddering breath.

And then he left the room in a whirl of red fabric and white paper.

Yuffie watched him go and tried not to cry.

* * *

I hear she still grants forgiveness  
Although I willingly forgot her  
The offering is molasses and you say  
I guess I'm an underwater thing so I  
Guess I can't take it personally  
I guess I'm an underwater thing I'm  
Liquid running

—_Liquid Diamonds_, Tori Amos


End file.
